by Lauren Kate
“That is seriously disgusting, Bill.”
“Be quiet,” he snapped. “Next time give me more space to work. You think I like ‘making do’? I don’t.” He jerked his head at the jeering throngs. “Luckily most of them are too drunk to notice the girl stepping out of the shadows at the back of the room.”
Bill was right: No one was looking at them. Everyone was squabbling as they pressed closer to the stage. It was just a platform, raised about five feet off the ground, and, standing at the back of the rowdy crowd, Luce had trouble seeing it clearly.
“Come on, now!” a boy shouted from the back. “Don’t make us wait all day!”
Above the crowd were three tiers of box seats, and then nothing: the O-shaped amphitheater opened on a midday sky the pale blue of a robin’s egg. Luce looked around for her past self. For Daniel.
“We’re at the opening of the Globe.” She thought back to Daniel’s words under the peach trees at Sword & Cross. “Daniel told me we were here.”
“Sure, you were here,” Bill said. “About fourteen years ago. Perched on your older brother’s shoulder. You came with your family to see Julius Caesar.”
Bill hovered in the air a foot in front of her. It was unappetizing, but the high collar around her neck actually seemed to hold its shape. She almost resembled the sumptuously dressed women in the higher boxes.
“And Daniel?” she asked.
“Daniel was a player—”
“Hey!”
“That’s what they call the actors.” Bill rolled his eyes. “He was just starting out then. To everyone else in the audience, his debut was utterly forgettable. But to little three-year-old Lucinda”—Bill shrugged—“it put the fire in you. You’ve been quote-unquote dying to get onstage ever since. Tonight’s your night.”
“I’m an actor?”
No. Her friend Callie was the actor, not her. During Luce’s last semester at the Dover School, Callie had begged Luce to try out with her for Our Town. The two of them had rehearsed for weeks before the audition. Luce got one line, but Callie had brought the house down with her portrayal of Emily Webb. Luce had watched from the wings, proud of and awed by her friend. Callie would have sold off her life’s possessions to stand in the old Globe Theatre for one minute, let alone to get up on the stage.
But then Luce remembered Callie’s blood-drained face when she’d seen the angels battle the Outcasts. What had happened to Callie after Luce had left? Where were the Outcasts now? How would Luce ever explain to Callie, or her parents, what had happened—if, that is, Luce ever returned to her backyard and that life?
Because Luce knew now that she wouldn’t go back to that life until she’d figured out how to stop it from ending. Until she’d unraveled this curse that forced her and Daniel to live out the same star-crossed lovers’ tale again and again.
She must be here in this theater for a reason. Her soul had drawn her here; why?
She pushed through the crowd, moving along the side of the amphitheater until she could see the stage. The wooden planks had been covered with a thick, hemplike matting made to look like rough grass. Two full-sized cannons stood like guards near either wing, and a row of potted orange trees lined the back wall. Not far from Luce, a rickety wooden ladder led to a curtained space: the tiring-room—she remembered from the acting class she’d taken with Callie—where the actors got into their costumes and prepared for their scenes.
“Wait!” Bill called as she hurried up the ladder.
Behind the curtain, the room was small and cramped and dimly lit. Luce passed stacks of manuscripts and open wardrobes full of costumes, ogling a massive lion’s-head mask and rows of hanging gold and velvet cloaks. Then she froze: Several actors were standing around in various stages of undress—boys with half-buttoned gowns, men lacing up brown leather boots. Thankfully, the actors were busily powdering their faces and frantically rehearsing lines, so that the room was filled with short shouted-out fragments of the play.
Before any of the actors could look up and see her, Bill flew to Luce’s side and pushed her into one of the wardrobes. Clothes closed around her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Let me remind you that you’re an actor in a time when there are no actresses.” Bill frowned. “You don’t belong back here as a woman. Not that that stopped you. Your past self took some pretty grand risks to get herself a role in All Is True.”
“All Is True?” Luce repeated. She’d been hoping she would at least recognize the title. No such luck. She peeked out of the wardrobe into the room.
“You know it as Henry the Eighth,” Bill said, yanking her back by the collar. “But pay attention: Would you like to venture a guess as to why your past self would lie and disguise herself to land a role—”
“Daniel.”
He’d just come into the tiring-room. The door to the yard outside was still open behind him; the sun was at his back. Daniel walked alone, reading a handwritten script, hardly noticing the other players around him. He looked different than he had in any of her other lives. His blond hair was long and a bit wavy, gathered with a black band at the nape of his neck. He had a beard, neatly trimmed, just a bit darker in color than the hair on his head.
Luce felt an urge to touch it. To caress his face and run her fingers through his hair and trace the back of his neck and touch every part of him. His white shirt gaped open, showing the clean line of muscles on his chest. His black pants were baggy, gathered into knee-high black boots.
As he drew nearer, her heart began to pound. The roar of the crowd in the pit fell away. The stink of dried sweat from the costumes in the wardrobe disappeared. There was just the sound of her breathing and his footsteps moving toward her. She stepped out of the wardrobe.
At the sight of her, Daniel’s thunderstorm-gray eyes glowed violet. He smiled in surprise.
She couldn’t hold it in any longer. She rushed toward him, forgetting Bill, forgetting the actors, forgetting the past self, who could be anywhere, steps away, the girl this Daniel really belonged to. She forgot everything but her need to be held by him.
He slid his arms easily around her waist, guiding her quickly to the other side of the bulky wardrobe, where they were hidden from the other actors. Her hands found the back of his neck. A warm rush rippled through her. She closed her eyes and felt his lips come down on hers, featherlight—almost too light. She waited to feel the hunger in his kiss. She waited. And waited.
Luce inched higher, arching her neck so that he would kiss her harder, more deeply. She needed his kiss to remind her why she was doing this, losing herself in the past and seeing herself dying again and again: because of him, because of the two of them together. Because of their love.
Touching him again reminded her of Versailles. She wanted to thank him for saving her from marrying the king. And to beg him never to hurt himself again as he’d done in Tibet. She wanted to ask what he’d dreamed about when he’d slept for days after she’d died in Prussia. She wanted to hear what he’d said to Luschka right before she died that awful night in Moscow. She wanted to pour out her love, and break down and cry, and let him know that every second of every lifetime she’d been through, she had missed him with all her heart.
But there was no way to communicate any of that to this Daniel. None of that had even happened yet to this Daniel. Besides, he took her for the Lucinda of this era, the girl who didn’t know any of the things that Luce had come to know. There were no words to tell him.
Her kiss was the only way she could show him that she understood.
But Daniel wouldn’t kiss her the way she wanted. The closer she pressed to him, the farther back he leaned.
Finally he pushed her away completely. He held on only to her hands, as if the rest of her were dangerous.
“Lady.” He kissed the very tips of her fingers, making her shiver. “Would I be too bold to say your love makes you unmannerly?”
“Unmannerly?” Luce blushed.
Daniel took
her back into his arms, slowly, a bit nervously. “Good Lucinda, you must not find yourself in this place dressed as you are.” His eyes kept returning to her dress. “What clothes are these? Where is your costume?” He reached into a wardrobe and flicked through the clothes pegs.
Quickly, Daniel began to unlace his boots, tossing them on the floor with two thuds. Luce tried not to gape when he dropped his trousers. He wore short gray pantaloons underneath that left very little to the imagination.
Her cheeks burned as Daniel briskly unbuttoned his white shirt. He yanked it off, exposing the full beauty of his chest. Luce sucked in her breath. The only things missing were his unfurled wings. Daniel was so impeccably gorgeous—and he seemed to have no idea of the effect he was having on her by standing there in his underwear.
She gulped, fanning herself. “Is it hot in here?”
“Put these on until I can fetch your costume,” he said, tossing the clothes at her. “Hurry, before someone sees you.” He dashed to the wardrobe in the corner and rifled through it, pulling out a rich green-and-gold robe, another white shirt, and a pair of cropped green pants. He hurried into the new clothes—his costume, Luce guessed—as she picked up his discarded street clothes.
Luce remembered that it had taken the servant girl in Versailles a half hour to squeeze her into this dress. There were strings and ties and laces in all sorts of private places. There was no way she was going to be able to get out of it with any sort of dignity.
“There was, um, a costume change.” Luce gripped the black fabric of her skirt. “I thought this would look nice for my character.”
Luce heard footsteps behind her, but before she could turn, Daniel’s hand pulled her deep into the wardrobe next to him. It was cramped and dark and wonderful to be so close. He pulled the door shut as far as it would go and stood before her, looking like a king with the green-and-gold robe wrapped around him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Where did you get this? Is our Anne Boleyn suddenly from Mars?” He chuckled. “I always thought she hailed from Wiltshire.”
Luce’s mind raced to catch up. She was playing Anne Boleyn? She’d never read this play, but Daniel’s costume suggested he was playing the king, Henry VIII.
“Mr. Shakespeare—ah, Will—thought it would look good—”
“Oh, Will did?” Daniel smirked, not believing her at all but seeming not to care. It was strange to feel that she could do or say almost anything and Daniel would still find it charming. “You’re a little bit mad, aren’t you, Lucinda?”
“I—well—”
He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. “I adore you.”
“I adore you, too.” The words tumbled from her mouth, feeling so real and so true after the last few stammering lies. It was like letting out a long-held breath. “I’ve been thinking, thinking a lot, and I wanted to tell you that—that—”
“Yes?”
“The truth is that what I feel for you is … deeper than adoration.” She pressed her hands over his heart. “I trust you. I trust your love. I know now how strong it is, and how beautiful.” Luce knew that she couldn’t come right out and say what she really meant—she was supposed to be a different version of herself, and the other times, when Daniel had figured out who she was, where she’d come from, he’d clammed up immediately and told her to leave. But maybe if she chose her words carefully, Daniel would understand. “It may seem like sometimes I—I forget what you mean to me and what I mean to you, but deep down … I know. I know because we are meant to be together. I love you, Daniel.”
Daniel looked shocked. “You—you love me?”
“Of course.” Luce almost laughed at how obvious it was—but then she remembered: She had no idea which moment from her past she’d walked into. Maybe in this lifetime they’d only exchanged coy glances.
Daniel’s chest rose and fell violently and his lower lip began to quiver. “I want you to come away with me,” he said quickly. There was a desperate edge to his voice.
Luce wanted to cry out Yes!, but something held her back. It was so easy to get lost in Daniel when his body was pressed so close to hers and she could feel the heat coming off his skin and the beating of his heart through his shirt. She felt she could tell him anything now—from how glorious it had felt to die in his arms in Versailles to how devastated she was now that she knew the scope of his suffering. But she held back: The girl he thought she was in this lifetime wouldn’t talk about those things, wouldn’t know about them. Neither would Daniel. So when she finally opened her mouth, her voice faltered.
Daniel put a finger over her lips. “Wait. Don’t protest yet. Let me ask you properly. By and by, my love.”
He peeked out the cracked wardrobe door, toward the curtain. A cheer came from the stage. The audience roared with laughter and applause. Luce hadn’t even realized the play had begun.
“That’s my entrance. I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her forehead, then dashed out and onto the stage.
Luce wanted to run after him, but two figures came and stood just beyond the wardrobe door.
The door squeaked open and Bill fluttered inside. “You’re getting good at this,” he said, flopping onto a sack of old wigs.
“Where have you been hiding?”
“Who, me? Nowhere. What would I have to hide from?” he asked. “That little costume-change sham was a wee stroke of genius,” he said, raising his tiny hand for a high five.
It was always a bit of a buzz kill to be reminded that Bill was a fly on the wall during every interaction with Daniel.
“You’re really going to leave me hanging like this?” Bill slowly withdrew his hand.
Luce ignored him. Something felt heavy and raw in her chest. She kept hearing the desperation in Daniel’s voice when he’d asked her to run away with him. What had that meant?
“I’m dying tonight. Aren’t I, Bill?”
“Well …” Bill cast his eyes down. “Yes.”
Luce swallowed hard. “Where’s Lucinda? I need to get inside her again so I can understand this lifetime.” She pushed at the wardrobe door, but Bill took hold of the sash on her gown and pulled her back.
“Look kid, going three-D can’t be your go-to move. Think of it as a special-occasion skill.” He pursed his lips. “What is it you think you’re going to learn here?”
“What she needs to escape from, of course,” Luce said. “What is Daniel saving her from? Is she engaged to someone else? Living with a cruel uncle? Out of favor with the king?”
“Uh-oh.” Bill scratched the top of his head. It made a grating sound, like nails on a chalkboard. “I must have made a pedagogical boo-boo somewhere. You think there’s a reason for your death every time?”
“There’s not?” She could feel her face fall.
“I mean, your deaths aren’t meaningless, exactly.…”
“But when I died inside Lys, I felt everything—she believed that burning up freed her. She was happy because marrying that king would have meant her life was a lie. And Daniel could save her by killing her.”
“Oh, honey, is that what you think? That your deaths are an out for bad marriages or something?”
She squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of sudden tears. “It has to be something like that. It has to be. Otherwise it’s just pointless.”
“It’s not pointless,” Bill said. “You do die for a reason. Just not so simple a reason. You can’t expect to understand it all at once.”
She grunted in frustration and banged her fist against the side of the wardrobe.
“I can see what you’re all jacked up about,” Bill said finally. “You went three-D and you think you unlocked the secret of your universe. But it’s not always that neat and easy. Expect chaos. Embrace chaos. You should still try to learn as much as you can from every life you visit. Maybe in the end, it’ll all add up to something. Maybe you’ll end up with Daniel … or maybe you’ll decide there’s more to life than—”
A rustling startled them. Luce peeked
around the wardrobe door.
A man, around fifty, with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a small potbelly, stood just behind an actor in a dress. They were whispering. When the girl turned her head a little, the stage lights lit up her profile. Luce froze at the sight: a delicate nose and small lips made up with pink powder. A dark brown wig with just a few strands of long black hair showing underneath. A gorgeous golden gown.
It was Lucinda, fully costumed as Anne Boleyn and about to go onstage.
Luce edged out of the wardrobe. She felt nervous and tongue-tied but also oddly empowered: If what Bill had told her was true, there wasn’t a lot of time left.
“Bill?” she whispered. “I need you to do that thing where you press Pause so I can—”
“Shhhh!” Bill’s hiss had a finality that said Luce was on her own. She would just have to wait until this man left so she could get Lucinda alone.
Unexpectedly, Lucinda moved toward the wardrobe where Luce was hiding. Lucinda reached inside. Her hand moved toward the golden cloak right next to Luce’s shoulder. Luce held her breath, reached up, clasped her fingers with Lucinda’s.
Lucinda gasped and threw the door wide, staring deep into Luce’s eyes, teetering on the edge of some inexplicable understanding. The floor beneath them seemed to tilt. Luce grew dizzy, closing her eyes and feeling as if her soul had dropped out of her body. She saw herself from the outside: her strange dress that Bill had altered on the fly, the raw fear in her eyes. The hand in hers was soft, so soft she could barely feel it.
She blinked and Lucinda blinked and then Luce didn’t feel any hand at all. When she looked down, her hand was empty. She’d become the girl she’d been holding on to. Quickly, she grabbed the cloak and settled it over her shoulders.
The only other person in the tiring-room was the man who’d been whispering to Lucinda. Luce knew then that he was William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare. She knew him. They were, the three of them—Lucinda, Daniel, and Shakespeare—friends. There had been a summer afternoon when Daniel had taken Lucinda to visit Shakespeare at his home in Stratford. Toward sunset, they’d sat in the library, and while Daniel worked on his sketches at the window, Will had asked her question after question—all the while taking furious notes—about when she’d first met Daniel, how she felt about him, whether she thought she could one day fall in love.
